


Follow Your Heart

by endlessnepenthe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Wings, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Fluff, M/M, Sunrises, Sunsets, Team Free Will (Supernatural), Tooth-Rotting Fluff, let! team! free! will! watch! sunsets! and! sunrises! together!, literally the softest thing you will ever read, very very soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-24 13:20:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21100112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endlessnepenthe/pseuds/endlessnepenthe
Summary: “Wh—” Dean’s mouth is unexpectedly dry. He licks his lips, a habit he never notices he’s doing until after he’s done it. “What’re you doing here?”“You called for me.” Castiel’s as impassive and unruffled as ever, words carefully enunciated with his voice of deep gritty gravel.





	Follow Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Just watched 11x11 for the first time and I knew I hAD to write something soft because that line (and especially Dean's reaction to it) broke my heart

_ “Tell me something: when’s the last time you watched a sunset without waiting for something to go bump in the night?” _

_ He looks away from the fiery colours outside the window. Smirks, closes his eyes in a long blink. Shakes his head once. _

Never _ sits on the tip of his tongue, bitter with realization. It would be so easy to let it slip, wouldn’t require even half a breath to do so. _

_ But he doesn’t allow it. _

_ Because saying it would make it real. _

_ Unavoidable. Undeniable. _

_ Because saying it would _ break _ him. _

Dean tips the bottle back, swallowing the last of his beer. It’s nearly dark, the vivid blood red of the sun a thin fading line on the horizon. He’s lounging on the hood of the Impala, parked in the grass next to a long unused dirt path overgrown with weeds smack dab in the middle of _ nowhere. _ The temperature is dropping as twilight stretches into night, but Dean doesn’t yet feel the chill enough for it to be an issue; the beer in his belly is keeping him wonderfully warm along with Sam, who is sprawled out next to Dean, their legs pressed comfortably together up one side like a physical sort of reassurance.

Speaking of Sam, he’s been quiet. Dean glances down and _ yup, Sammy’s asleep. _ Whatever happened to watching the sunset? Then again, the sun has already mostly set, and Dean supposes that Sam should rightfully be exhausted after the demanding day of working multiple cases at once. His endearing pain in the ass little brother has a rather large lock of his irrationally long mane over his eyes, making Dean’s fingers itch once again for some shears. He wouldn’t mind one of those electric hair razors, either.

Despite the urge to give Sam a buzz cut, Dean is more than careful and gentle when he uses a finger to brush the offending hair off Sam’s face. Like this, Sam looks peaceful and relaxed and so _ painfully _ young. He looks like someone without the weight of the world on his capable but tired shoulders, like someone who wouldn’t be wary of every shadow because he didn’t know exactly what kinds of nightmare creatures existed out there. He looks like someone _ normal, _ like what he could have been, had Dean not showed up and dragged him away from his dream life.

Dean watches Sam breathe, serene and unaware, for one more selfishly greedy minute. His heart aches for the young gangly Sam with hair in his excited eyes and the wide easy grin of a puppy dog. Older Sam still smiles, sure, but it’s always something tiny — just the sun peeking briefly out from behind dense clouds to brighten Dean’s dreary life — and barely ever reached eyes that were haunted by the endless nightmares they’ve seen. With each passing day, something in Dean breaks for Sam’s laugh, once pure unrestrained delight, now something so rare it might as well be a double rainbow. He’s never seen one, by the way — a double rainbow — and it’s been so many heartbreaking years since he’s heard Sam laugh at all.

Shaking his head like it would physically dislodge the thoughts in his head, Dean prods lightly at one of Sam’s broad shoulders. When had he grown up? Dean knows exactly when, carried Sam out of the fire himself as petulant and innocent child Sammy was left behind to burn to ashes along with his dreams.

That’s when the first weight appeared, his little brother’s still-growing-broader shoulders bowing under the new burden. With Sam, the weight is a solid physical thing; Dean doesn’t even remember the last time he saw Sam stand up straight without slouching down like he’s trying to make himself smaller. Still Dean hates himself — he’ll _ never _ stop — for forcing Sam to grow up so quickly, for doing exactly what John had done to him. And yet, every single time Dean hears the undercurrent of enthusiastic joy in Sam’s _ So get this— _or _ The lore says— _whenever he’s learned something new, Dean is _ glad _ he has his brother by his side, walking the same path.

It’s an abandoned lonely path, rough and bumpy as the face of the moon, lost and unwalked in countless places, but together they’ll walk — Dean in front and Sam following close after — and together they’ll create their own road, carve their names into the world.

Sam continues sleeping, so Dean nudges his shoulder more insistently, still as soft as a mother waking a sleeping child. _ Sam, _ he nearly says, changes his mind at the last moment.

“Sammy,” Dean murmurs. Because no matter how often his brother will (halfheartedly) protest against the nickname fit for a child, Sam will always be a child to Dean, a child he’d give his life to keep safe, without a doubt. “Wake up. Sammy—”

Inhaling sharply, Sam startles awake, instinctively grabbing for the hand resting on his shoulder. “Dean,” he slurred sleepily before he’s even opened his eyes, holding Dean’s arm in place by his shirt sleeve. “Wha—”

“‘s getting cold; sleep in the car.”

To Dean’s surprise, Sam doesn’t protest beyond a soft sigh, obediently sliding off the hood of the Impala and staggering slightly when he lands clumsily on his feet. “Mmph.”

“Wait, let me—” Dean hops to the ground next to Sam, opening the back door and placing his hand on the frame to prevent Sam’s head from colliding with the car. “‘kay, get in.”

Sam scrambles into the car and collapses on his back, wiggling restlessly in an attempt to find a better position. One of his legs dangle off the edge of the seat, upper body wedged against the corner. Despite even Dean finding it tough to be comfortable squashed into the Impala, Sam manages to fold his long limbs into the back and is asleep again in mere moments.

Grabbing a blanket from the trunk, Dean spreads it out over Sam, meticulously tucking it around his shoulders.

“G’night, Sam.”

He receives a light snore in response. Huffing a fond breathy chuckle, Dean shuts the door and climbs onto the hood of the Impala again, leaning back to watch the stars appearing in the deep obsidian expanse of the night sky. The moon is a narrow crescent, glowing with a silvery ethereal light like a small faraway beacon in the darkness.

_ “When’s the last time you watched a sunset without waiting for something to go bump in the night?” _

Never_ sits on the tip of his tongue. _

“Today,” Dean whispered to the moon, a secret carried away by the cool night breeze.

The stars glitter in the sky, little diamonds of light. Sam sleeps in the warmth of the Impala, Dean perched on top of the car like a guardian keeping his brother safe. And for once, he’s perfectly content not to think about monsters and what might or might not be lurking in the dark empty hills around them.

Today, Dean doesn’t think about saving the world; he appreciates the beauty of the stars above his head, the delicate sliver of the moon. Today, Dean doesn’t think about what the next case might be; he allows the peace and joy of having _ saved lives _ with his own two hands and his brother by his side to wash over him, soothe the ocean inside. Today, Dean doesn’t think about imminent failure or death; he thinks about encouraging his little brother to wake up and see the sun rise in the sky, about seeing the way Sam’s eyes will shine and his jaw will be slack as he witnesses a natural phenomenon they have never had the luxury to simply sit and watch.

Today, Dean thinks about living.

_ “You want to know the secret to living a long and happy life? Follow your heart. You do that, all the rest just figures itself out.” _

_ A hand pats his chest — once, twice — just over his heart, before retreating. _

_ Seated on a sofa that sagged far too low to be comfortable, he instantly thinks of bright, vivid sapphire. A confused frown, narrowed eyes and tilted head. Dark wild hair. Oversized trench coat the colour of tanned desert sand. Slightly wrinkled white dress shirt, backward blue tie. _

_ Follow your heart. You do that, all the rest just figures itself out. _

Dean’s startled from his thoughts by the unmistakable sound of enormous feathered wings. “Cas,” he blurts out before he even realized he’d opened his mouth.

Castiel stands calmly next to the Impala, dressed the same as always, as far as Dean could tell by the weak light of the moon. “Hello, Dean.”

“Wh—” Dean’s mouth is unexpectedly dry. He licks his lips, a habit he never notices he’s doing until after he’s done it. “What’re you doing here?”

“You called for me.” Castiel’s as impassive and unruffled as ever, words carefully enunciated with his voice of deep gritty gravel.

“I don’t think…”

_ Follow your heart. _

“Yeah, okay— Whatever. Sit with me?”

He sees Castiel’s lips curl with a faint pleased smile and resolutely fixes his gaze on the stars as the Impala dips gently with an additional weight.

It’s nice. There’s no awkwardness, no urge to make conversation to fill the silence. The good buzz Dean had as a result of a few beers gradually seeps away like a receding tide, leaving the consequences of a chaotic day in its wake. Now he understands exactly why Sam — who had nursed his one beer for hours — passed out so quickly.

All too soon, Dean’s exhaustion catches up with him and before he knows it, his hold on consciousness is rapidly slipping, Castiel sitting alert and vigilant at his side. Dean falls asleep without sparing a single thought for how exposed and vulnerable he is, out on the hood of the Impala.

Many quiet night hours later, Dean’s coaxed up from the depths of unconsciousness by fingers hesitantly tapping his thigh and a soothingly low voice murmuring his name. He doesn’t know why, but he feels like he could sleep forever as long as that voice stayed next to him, because it made him feel protected. _ Safe. _

“Let him sleep.” The words are soft and hushed, practically a drowsy sigh. But it’s threaded through with a note of happiness and although Dean doesn’t yet recognize who it might be, his heart swells with the knowledge that this person is _ happy. _

“But he wanted…” This voice is the one he’d heard earlier, lower and more… growly. It brings the image of a sharp jawline shadowed by light stubble and strong elegant fingers curled around the handle of a triple edged blade, something pure and untamed as a thunderstorm locked behind eyes that glowed a cold radiant blue.

_ They’re talking about me, _ Dean realizes. So although he wants to nuzzle into the warmth around him and go back to being dead to the world, he drags himself awake.

Blinking slowly, the first thing Dean sees his own jean clad leg pressed to a dark dress pant one. Then he notices how his cheek is resting on a broad shoulder, one of his arms lying slack on the hood of the Impala to curve around a _ person, _ fingertips just barely touching a thick thigh. His next inhale is filled with the indescribable scent of wind and rain; Dean doesn’t need to see a face to know he’s been _ napping _ on an ang— on _ Castiel. _

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says, warm.

“Cas.” Although Dean can’t think of anything he hates more except Sam (or Castiel, or anybody that’s family) dying, he peels himself off of Castiel and sits up, pawing absently at his sleep heavy eyes. “Mm— Wha’ ‘re you wakin’ me for, the sun ain’t even up—” He turns to squint at the blooming colours on the horizon. _ “Oh.” _

Dean’s only distantly aware that his eyes are round and his mouth is open, a small wondering smile on his face as the sky slowly comes alive with brilliant crimsons, vibrant oranges, and sunny yellows. Very much belatedly, he finally recognizes the sensation of someone watching him; Dean turns his head and finds two pairs of eyes trained on him with astounding levels of focus, studying him like an object of significant interest or a subject to be learned.

Confused by the attention, Dean raises his eyebrows at both Castiel and Sam.

_ What’re you looking at? _

“...Do I have something on my face,” Dean demands, raising a distracted hand to pat around his jaw. Man, it would be so embarrassing if he’d drooled on Castiel in his sleep.

“No,” Castiel replies, ever patient and willing to indulge Dean. His smile crinkles the corners of his eyes.

_ Whew, okay— Crisis averted. _

But neither Castiel or Sam look away, continuing to stare at Dean with endlessly fond faces. Scowling, Dean glares back — _The hell you want? —_ and pointedly turns back to the sunrise when he feels a flush threatening to warm his cheeks.

Dean has a spontaneous urge to stand; as if having the earth under his feet would ground him enough to not feel lost at sea, after seeing Sam and Castiel’s twin expressions of unfiltered adoration directed at him. When he reluctantly withdraws his arm from right behind Castiel and moves to get off the Impala, Castiel yelps a soft involuntary sound of surprise, shoulders tensing.

“Uh—” Dean pauses, one hand braced on the Impala’s hood. “You okay?”

Sam raises an eyebrow incredulously, eyes wide like he knew something Dean didn’t and was shocked that Dean didn’t know. Dean decides to ignore that look.

Castiel tips his head in a half nod. “Yes. My apologies, I seem to have startled you.”

“S’fine. Long as you’re good.” He doesn’t move, watching Castiel expectantly.

“I’m alright, yes.” Castiel has that _ affectionate _ look again, eyes bright.

Dean coughs, glances away. “Good.”

Hopping down to land gracefully on his feet, Dean arches his back until he hears a satisfying _ pop. _ He groans — long and low — in undisguised relief. And then shivers vigorously, because when had it been this _ cold? _

Glancing back at Castiel and Sam with a bewildered frown, Dean wonders why it had been like he was next to a heater around Castiel. Angels don’t give off heat, do they? Sam frowns back, puzzled, and that’s when he notices — Sam’s actually wearing _ less _ than Dean is, but for some reason, he’s perfectly indifferent to the cold.

Determined to solve the mystery — and hopefully get rid of the chill freezing him from the outside in — Dean clambers back onto the Impala next to Castiel, crossing his legs together to warm up faster.

“Dean. Are you alright?” Castiel’s blue eyes are worried.

Dean nods, shrugging a shoulder. “Hm? I’m fine.”

Castiel hums a noncommittal sound. Now Dean’s thoroughly perplexed, because all he can feel is what would be a normal amount of body heat radiating from Castiel when Dean scoots just a bit closer.

He’s staring at the rising sun, struggling to comprehend, when something soft drapes around him, warm as one of those blankets that had internal (electrical) sources of heat. Castiel shifts a shoulder, a tiny and otherwise unimportant movement; but the thing-that-is-not-a-blanket around Dean presses closer, blocking out any hints of the cold early morning breeze, until he’s snug and his muscles are once again pliant with warmth. There’s absolutely nothing to see when Dean looks down and around him with laughably dramatic turns of his head, and Sam snorts rather unbecomingly from the other side of Castiel.

“You… Your—”

Tilting his head to one side, Castiel regards Dean with mirth swimming in his eyes. Dean snaps his mouth shut, teeth clacking together audibly. He swallows, his tongue suddenly heavy with words he didn’t know how to say.

Staring determinedly into pools of sapphire, Dean manages to force out two words, his ears burning. “Thanks, Cas.”

Castiel smiles and it’s the sun rising all over again, right before Dean’s eyes.

Morning finds a glossy black ‘67 Chevy Impala parked in the grass next to a long unused dirt path overgrown with weeds. On her hood is three figures: the first is the taller of the two brothers, a lock of hair hanging in his face as he dreams of fireworks blooming in the night sky; the second is the elder of the two brothers, a faint smile on his face, slumped over with his leg pressed to another that wasn’t his own; the third sits upright with one Winchester asleep on each shoulder, a tireless sentry watching over his charges. He smiles, profoundly content next to the very beings his own kind constantly scorn and belittle. The sun kisses two tired faces and an ageless one, gently caresses the imperceptible outlines of the guardian angel’s wings, wrapped around two fragile humans, shielding them from any harm as they slumber on.

**Author's Note:**

> writing this made me so so happy


End file.
